


Soft and Sweet and Never Demanding

by thimbleful



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Post Season 7, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 16:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13930569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimbleful/pseuds/thimbleful
Summary: Hours later, when she’s long since given up on making sense of words on parchment and instead found herself staring out the window, admiring the still falling snow that catches on the window glass like climbing roses, Jon comes to her solar.A fluffy one shot taking place after Jon returns to Winterfell, post s7, in which Sansa realizes how she feels for him (and finds out he feels the same).





	Soft and Sweet and Never Demanding

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first jonsa fic idea, and I started writing it months ago, but then the monster that is they tumble down took over my life, lol.  
> Tonight I f i n a l l y finished it. Phew.

For several days, snowless wind has howled through Winterfell and its people have stayed cooped up inside. But on the day of Jon’s return, dawn breaks over a quiet North. As she stands on the battlements and watches the Queen’s cortege move through the snowy landscape, Sansa thinks the old gods are welcoming him home. That the North has longed for him and now shows its beauty to ensure he’ll never leave again.

But as Daenerys Targaryen rides through the gates on a silver horse, snow starts drifting down in flakes large and plush enough to look like sugar confectionary sculpted by a royal baker--and it seems to be all for her. Gazing up at the sky, Daenerys lets out a peal of laughter while flakes melt on her cheeks and lips--and linger in her hair like a winter crown. Jon slides off his horse and helps her off hers, his hands firm around her waist. Instead of looking at the people gathered for her, people Sansa has convinced to bow (for now, for show), Daenerys keeps staring at the sky while holding her hands out like a summer child in awe of her first snowfall.

And Jon looks at Daenerys.

(While Sansa looks down at the toes of her boots peeking out beneath the hem of her carefully chosen dress--the blue one, with the wolf bit--and tries not to feel betrayed by the North for showering its new queen with its approval.)

From the tales that have reached Winterfell of a queen who lusts for power and fire and war, Sansa expected Cersei’s sharp, hungry beauty. The kind that devours any man bold enough to look upon her. But Daenerys’ beauty is soft--wide-eyed and pink-cheeked and rosy-mouthed--and why do Sansa’s hands ball into fists?

_ Am I that vain? _

Sansa draws strength from the ice and the snow and keeps her composure throughout the greeting ceremony. Even as an even more beautiful woman with brown skin and dark hair spouts off her queen’s many titles.

(Her beauty doesn’t bother Sansa in the least, though.)

Jon musses Arya’s hair and envelopes her in a tight hug. He hugs Bran too and pats him on the shoulder. His eyes shine and crinkle, and his body language is loose and warm--only to tense up when he reaches Sansa.

“Jon,” she says and he looks at her as if she called him bastard. “Welcome home.”

“Sansa.” He gives her a nod and then he’s moved on to Sam.

She stays only as long as she must. There’s no need for her to show Daenerys around the castle when Jon’s her eager servant. Instead Sansa flees to her solar with the excuse of having work to do, the bunch of keys attached to her belt jangling with each hurried step.

\-----

Hours later, when she’s long since given up on making sense of words on parchment and instead found herself staring out the window, admiring the still falling snow that catches on the window glass like climbing roses, Jon comes to her solar. No queen hangs on his arm, but the sweet scent of a woman’s bath oils lingers on the cloak Sansa sewed for him, and she can’t help but recoil when he comes near.

“You’re  _ that  _ angry with me?”

“Why would you think I’m angry?”

He gives a little shrug and gestures at the space between them.

“Oh, that’s why you’re here. Poor little Jon needed a hug after he sold his home for three dragons and their mother.”

“Why are you so angry with me? I thought you understood!”

“I do understand. Who do you think convinced your people to kneel out in the courtyard? It took quite some work, I might add. You’re very welcome.”   


“Then why are you so angry?”

“I understand you had to bend the knee, Jon. I understand we need those dragons. But did you have to go and fall in love with her too?”

The meaning of her words doesn’t sink in until they’ve fallen flatly to the flagstone floor. She’s not vain; she’s  _ jealous _ . The realization flares through her, red and hot and shameful, and even though she’d do anything to avoid seeing it dawn on Jon as well, her eyes are locked with his. She can’t even blink. Not until he does, dark lashes fluttering over glassy eyes. His chest heaves with breaths as though they were shouting when they only raised their voices a touch.

“Yes,” he says after such a long while she barely remembers the question. “I did.”

“Because she’s so beautiful and wonderful.”

“Yes,” he says but he shakes his head.

Sansa’s chest swells with a hope that carries her across the floor until she’s standing in front of him. “You really do love her, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jon says with a smile and another wonderful shake of his head.

With a sob of relief, she throws herself into his arms and buries her face in his neck. It shouldn’t feel this good, none of it should. She shouldn’t feel so relieved her half brother doesn’t love the beautiful queen; she shouldn’t feel so comfortable in his arms. She shouldn’t press her face against the warm skin of his neck and breathe him in.

(But it does and she does.)

\-----

Bran calls them to his chambers after supper. Jon, Sansa, and Arya. Sam’s there as well. They settle down in a half-circle in front of the hearth and Bran tells them news that send Sansa’s heart racing. Jon’s not her brother? Over the years she’s become a master at schooling her features into a blank mask, but now all she can do is stare at the floor and hope all eyes are on Jon instead of on her. It feels as if she has too many hands, too warm skin, and too loud a heart. She swears she hears its beating.

Jon’s not her brother.

“You’re our cousin,” Bran says. “Aunt Lyanna was your mother.”

“Cousin,” Sansa says before she can help herself. “Well, that’s still…”

_ Allowed _ .

“...family.”

Arya gives her a funny look and Sansa busies herself with smoothing out the wrinkles of her skirt while Bran tells them more about Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar. But it’s hard to take anything in. These feelings she’s only begun to understand are  _ allowed  _ and it feels as though Jon’s looking at her, but she doesn’t dare finding out because if he feels the same… It’s too overwhelming a thought to finish.

“You’re still our brother,” Arya says. “Right, Sansa?”

“Yes, of course.” Sansa stands up so quickly her head feels light and pinpricks of light dazzle her vision. “Excuse me. I haven’t slept well.” She presses her cold hands to her burning cheeks. “I’m feeling quite poorly.”

Instantly, Jon’s by her side, steadying her with a hand curled around her elbow. “I’ll walk you to Maester Wolkan.”

\-----

As they walk, neither says a word. While Sansa’s attended to, Jon waits in Maester Wolkan’s chambers, but he stands by the window and looks at the twinkling stars instead of at her. Stress, Wolkan tells her. He admonishes her kindly for working herself too hard, sleeping and eating too little. Jon looks at her then, his brow furrowed with concern.  He keeps his arm around her the whole walk to her chambers, and she leans on him far more than is necessary. Still, neither speak.

She invites him in and settles down by the fire, but Jon paces the room. He stares out the window, then lingers by the fireplace, then sits down on a chair, then gets up again. Often, he draws a breath as though to speak, only to start moving again. She folds her hands in her lap and waits patiently.

(Not patiently at all.)

“Sansa, I--”

Someone knocks on the door, but Jon looks as though someone knocked him on the head. Arya slips inside. Jon blanches, bows his head, and mumbles some excuse before leaving--and how is Sansa to interpret that? How is she to chat with her sister when all her thoughts lead to Jon and how his beard would feel against her palms if she were to cradle his cheeks and bring his lips to hers?

“What’s the matter with him?” Arya asks, nose wrinkled in confusion. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I need more sleep, that’s all. In fact”--Sansa gets up and starts removing her cloak--”I think I shall go to bed immediately. Unless you wanted something?”

“No.” Arya gives her a once-over and shrugs. “I was just worried. Good night.”  
  


Sansa’s just slipped into her nightgown when there’s another knock on her door. Jon’s outside. His eyes fall to her body and widen when he notices what she’s wearing. He blinks, swallows loudly. If she placed her hand on his chest would she feel his heart beating as fiercely as her own?

“I can come back later.”

She steps back and pulls the door with her in a wordless invitation and Jon steps inside with his head bowed like a boy waiting to be reprimanded for something mischievously done. Sense tells her to control the situation with courtesy, invite him to sit and converse, but the greedy, needy voice of her want is so much louder. 

They stand in the middle of the room, face to face, close enough to touch (if one of them were brave enough). No matter how much she breathes, air seems to flow so thinly, and time either stretches on and on or has ceased to exist. He says her name as light as summer wind, and it pulls her closer and closer until she feels the heat of him through the thin fabric of her nightgown.

“I’m not alone in this, am I?” he asks, his voice so hoarse, so fragile.

The only reply she can give is a shake of her head and the softest touch of her hand against his cheek. Her fingers ghost over his beard, then trail along his neck, find the nape of it, and then his lips press against hers and her eyes fall shut and something hard she’s carried inside of her for far too long crumbles. His arms wind around her waist, his hand’s splayed between her shoulder blades, and he kisses her like the dream of her was the only thing that sustained him during those long, long weeks trapped on an island made of sharpest stone. He tastes like mead and his tongue is soft and sweet and never demanding, never taking more than she’s ready to give.

When they finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers and lets his trembling breaths mingle with hers, and his hands still keep her flush against his body. Her own hands are tangled in his hair, even though she can’t remember pulling the leather-string free and letting his hair down. Gingerly, she combs his curls; they run silkily like water between her fingers.

“I should leave,” he murmurs against her lips before capturing them in another kiss that leaves her breathless. “It’s getting late.” Another kiss, gentle, loving. “I really should leave.”

(He doesn’t).

\-----

In the dimly lit halls of Winterfell, Daenerys is a shining white star. She has a special smile reserved for Jon; she whispers him invitations when she thinks no one can hear her; and she walks by his side as though she’s queen of it all, even his strong and honorable heart. But jealousy no longer rears its petty face. Sansa knows that whatever smiles and looks he gives Daenerys, they’re only for now, for show. She knows it because it’s in Sansa's bed he spends his nights, and it’s with her he sneaks off to the godswood or the broken tower or wherever else they can steal a moment together.

It’s in her ear he whispers promises of the future.

Promises he fulfills days later (when he returns from the war and wights and White Walkers are shattered and dragons and their mother are fallen, claimed by the old gods who did not want them after all). Promises he fulfills weeks later (when they exchange vows by heart-tree beneath gently drifting snowflakes), months later (when her belly grows round with their first child), and years and years and years later (when their children are grown and have children of their own).

And not once is Sansa jealous.

(She never has reason to be.)

  
  
  
  



End file.
